


make me behave like an animal

by BlackBat09



Category: Wolverine and the X-Men (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Biting, Blood and Injury, Consent Issues, Crying, Feral Behavior, Grinding, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09
Summary: honestly? quentin really didn't need to know that the manifestation of his headmaster's most base instincts was aware of the concept of post-nut clarity.
Relationships: Logan/Quentin Quire
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	make me behave like an animal

**Author's Note:**

> context for warnings: quentin is 16. the animalistic "berserker" aspect of logan's personality is in control. there is razor wire involved.

What’s left of Quentin’s room after Logan’s rampage is... a nightmare is putting it politely.

The blanket he throws up, drapes between his now-vertical bed frame and his upended desk, is part for the dark, the privacy, to let him concentrate, but also because he simply doesn’t want to look at the wreck of his life, so perfectly reflecting how out of hand the construct has gotten without him to mind it. It makes his head twinge- no, let’s face it, his head is pounding, and Quentin can hardly mind the stats he’s sifting through, trying to find a place to _start_ to fix this, when the ache has his skull throbbing, eyes squeezed shut tight against the world around him.

Even still, he can tell when the light spills across his face from someone pulling away the blanket, bites back a pained noise as the blinding fluorescents attack his eyes, snarling out, “I told you to fucking _leave_ , sleazoid.”

The hand that fists in his shirt is decidedly not Broo’s.

A rumbling growl tells him who’s lifting him from the floor and slamming his back into the wall even before his eyes snap open, hands flying to grip Logan’s thick forearm and immediately pulling back when they find the razor wire tangled around his body, palms already starting to bleed as Quentin yelps. He ends up hanging uselessly, pinned between Logan’s fist and the wall, breaths coming in rapid little puffs restricted by the adamantium-reinforced weight on his chest.

“ _Quire_.”

His breath is hot and coppery against Quentin’s face, the smell of gore making his stomach turn as the wire bites deep into the corners of Logan’s mouth like a Glasgow smile, cuts into the flesh of his tongue and leaves his teeth stained red. The low growl he emits when Quentin tries to wriggle is wet, pinkish saliva dripping down his chin as he leans in, aims his claws at Quentin’s head.

“Telepath. In my head. Like _worms_ ,” he snarls, and Quentin, damn him, can’t help the hysterical little wheeze that bursts from his lips.

“Should I be worried you know what worms feel like? Like, should we be calling you a veterina-” The tips of Logan’s claws easily slip through the skin of Quentin’s forehead, the slow prickle of blood beading up as he frantically switches tracks. “No! No, no, I’m trying to fix it, please, I can get you out, I’m gonna fix it, I just need _time_ and I need to focus, please-”

“Now,” he insists, pushing Quentin harder against the wall, firm forearm pressing the air from his diaphragm and turning his breaths to shaking gasps as his shirt catches in the razor wire, bracing his feet on the wall and trying to push him off only to lose purchase and go back to dangling. Logan doesn’t even blink.

“I- _can’t_ ,” he wheezes, “I told you. There’s too much in my head, I can’t focus on- _hh_ , on what I need to fix.” It takes longer than he’d like to catch his breath, trying to ignore that he thinks he feels his rib cage bending. “I need to clear my head so I can do it, and- you’re _not helping_.”

His dark eyes take Quentin in, pupils pinpricks, the heavy rasp and gurgle of each bloody breath escaping between his teeth as the razor wire keeps him from gritting them together. It’s terrifying. Like, honest-to-god, pants-wetting, nightmare-inducing horror. Why did Quentin think he wasn’t afraid of Logan again? Oh, right, because Quentin is stupid. Of course.

“Logan, please-”

“You... took Logan,” the man growls, words almost as mangled as his mouth, and Quentin blinks.

“I guess that’s- one way of looking at it,” he acknowledges. “If you just- please, I can get him back, just let me go and I’ll do it-”

The claws digging into Quentin’s forehead withdraw, letting the blood to roll down his face in slow rivulets as the feral mutant stares him down, nostrils flaring for a brief moment as Quentin continues to wheeze. As much as his head hurts, as dangerous as it is, Quentin gently reaches for the mind of the man in front of him, Logan-without-Logan, brushes against this creature of pure id and flinches as he snarls, as his mind lashes out in return, a stab of rage and pain and bloodlust that makes Quentin’s already short breath shudder.

“Berserker,” he corrects himself, watching the way his head tilts, his eyes narrow, as Quentin’s psychic touch withdraws. “I can- bring Logan back. I can.”

His gaze continues to pin Quentin to the wall before the Berserker leans in to inhale him, the steady drip of blood from his mouth onto Quentin’s shirt forgotten as he gets dangerously close to Quentin’s throat, the low growl in Berserker’s chest shaking him to his bones. Quentin quietly hopes to god he finds whatever evidence he needs that Quentin means it, earnestly, despite the slam of his heart against his concave ribs.

The sound gets lower, less aggressive, and Quentin feels the pressure in his chest release as the Berserker’s arm pulls away, tugging the front of his shirt with it where it’s still tangled in the razor wire, but Quentin’s just happy to take a gasping breath and fill _all_ of his lungs, thanks. Slowly, his feet touch the ground again, and the snuffling moves up his neck, from the curve of his throat to the soft skin beneath his ear, behind his jaw, and Quentin is trembling from how tense his muscles are. 

“Focus.” The word is hot against his skin, wet, and Quentin’s head spins a little, too caught up in the joy of not being dead to puzzle out what the fuck is happening here. He just swallows, wetting his mouth as he keeps trying to even out his breaths.

“This is- a little better. Breathing is nice. But you’re still not exactly helping,” he points out, and gets a rumble in return that tells him absolutely nothing. Cool.

Berserker lifts his head and Quentin’s mind notes how his pupils have shifted, no longer constricted to nearly nothing, before he’s invading Quentin’s space again, crushing their mouths together with the same ferocity he’s done everything else. It blindsides Quentin so thoroughly that he freezes, lips still parted to catch his breath, now allowing the Berserker to tilt his face and press deeper, the coppery taste of his blood coating Quentin’s tongue in a hot flood the more Berserker moves in against him.

He finally comes to with a whimper, not from the kiss but the burn of razor wire slicing into his tongue and his lips, lifting his hands to push Berserker away only to remember his already wounded palms and resign himself to squirming with another weak whine. The Berserker notices, pulls his face away to look Quentin over before his claws eject with their usual force, making the young telepath flinch, but all he does is press the long blades against the side of his own face, sliding them up beneath the tangled wire and cutting it away with sharp twangs. His mouth is already healing as he grips the loops of wire and tosses them away, into the mess of Quentin’s room, before leaning in to lap at the cuts at the edges of Quentin’s lips. He’d say it’s oddly gentle, but he’s licking _open fucking wounds_ and honestly-

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice cracks halfway through and Berserker huffs but otherwise ignores him, finally pulling his fist out of Quentin’s shirt only to tear the front to shreds, the sudden exposure making goosebumps prickle across his abdomen even as he can feel the heat rolling off the Berserker’s skin. The threat of the razor wire seems all the more real with his chest bared and Quentin tries to at least bring his hands up to cover his goddamn tits, but a growl answers the movement and Quentin smacks them back against the wall so fast it makes his palms sting, hissing before he snaps back, “I don’t heal.”

Another hot huff against his face is all that answers him, as Berserker’s tongue finds the other cuts on his mouth, teeth catching his lip to pull it tight and lathe over it before letting it go again, leaving it swollen and throbbing as his mouth moves up Quentin’s face. His eyes close on reflex as the Berserker draws closer, tongue tracing along his cheek, and Quentin absently realizes the blood from his forehead has trailed further down than he thought, which... is an explanation that doesn’t make this any less weird.

“Seriously, wh-” A low growl cuts him off as the Berserker turns him around and pushes him forward, head knocking against the wall and leaving his glasses tilted askew as he squeezes his eyes shut tight, the ache in his skull only worsening. He feels Berserker grip the back of his blazer and his shirt, tugging them both down until they’re wrapped mid-forearm, pulling his arms back to be pinned between his own body and the older mutant’s as he crowds Quentin against the flat surface. He can feel everything- thick muscle and coarse hair, the tack of blood and the bite of metal, and most especially _heat_ : the Berserker’s burning skin and his warm breath against the back of his neck, overwhelmingly loud with no space between them.

Lips brush along the bare curve of his shoulder and Quentin shudders, conflicted, especially when he feels broad hands tugging his hips back enough for one slip between him and the wall, just enough room that the razor wire doesn’t gut him as the Berserker’s hand slips over the front of his shorts to press between his thighs, thick fingers rubbing him through the fabric until Quentin’s knees go weak with a whine, eyes pricking with heat. Berserker’s thumb hooks in his waistband, jerking his shorts down to expose his hot cunt to the open air before he replaces his hand, rubbing at Quentin’s outer lips through the dark curls between the young telepath’s thighs as Quentin jolts, biting into his already-swollen lip. 

Another huff and he feels the Berserker’s tongue against his skin, feels as much as he hears the raspy growl of, “Clearing your head,” and then teeth clamp down hard on Quentin’s shoulder, making him shout as they break his skin with a pop. His hips jerk, and god he doesn’t want to analyze that, pushing himself against Berserker’s hand and letting his thick fingers press between his labia, rough fingertips rolling across his clit and his hole and back again. The older mutant picks up the motion after him, stroking Quentin’s pussy with a pleased rumble into his flesh, and Quentin can feel the vibrations against his back, in his _bones_ , hips clumsily rocking as Berserker’s tight grip holds him fast, his fingers lingering on his clit, wire cutting shallowly into his skin but soon forgotten with another rub of the sensitive bud.

“Mmh- L-” _Not Logan_ , he reminds himself, nails digging into his ripped palms with a whimper. As much as Quentin would like to say it, has said it in moments alone, he doesn’t want to provoke the Berserker, doesn’t want this to turn back into whatever the beast was about to do before he apparently decided he was feeling the lust more than the blood. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, head leaned against the wall and face hot as the slick sounds of his cunt get louder, each rough stroke of his lips and hot breath against his skin making Quentin drip with need. 

Another embarrassing yelp escapes Quentin, tears finally sliding from his eyes, as the Berserker dislodges his teeth, hot tongue lapping over the half-moon marks of his bite as his middle finger presses into Quentin’s body, curling to stroke his walls and seek out the spot that makes the telepath’s back arch, a high whine in his throat getting an answering growl. He strokes it again, and again, until he’s just rubbing mercilessly at Quentin’s g-spot, the teenager groaning hotly as his hips bump forward, grinding down on Berserker’s hand as his index finger plays around the edge of Quentin’s hole. It pushes in alongside the middle one, the stretch and pull making Quentin hiss, but both blunt fingertips abuse his sweet spot until the building pleasure drowns out the ache, each thrust echoing wetly in the small space between them. Berserker slowly loses interest in his first bite as he fucks Quentin on his fingers, moving down the slope of Quentin’s shoulder to lap at a new spot, the only warning the telepath before his jaws snap closed around his flesh again.

“Fuck-!” Only the off-center shift of the Berserker’s hips and the press of his knee between Quentin’s legs keeps the teen from collapsing as he comes with a sob, the older mutant’s densely muscled thigh easily supporting Quentin’s weight as Berserker keeps relentlessly working the teen’s g-spot, his cunt pulsing again and again, leaving both the Berserker’s hand and Quentin’s thighs soaked and dripping. Quentin feels like prey, caught between a wall and a man who may as well be one, squirming as he edges into overstimulation with his pussy twitching around the Berserker’s fingers. “Too much- _please_ , nnh-”

He swears the rumble he feels against his back is amused, the Berserker taking his sweet time to drag his fingers out, a hard, lingering press of Quentin’s sweet spot making his whole body quiver before he’s empty, needy cunt bearing down at the loss as he tries to catch his breath, trembles through the aftershocks that make him pull against the bruising grip at his hip, the teeth in his shoulder.

Quentin doesn’t know why he thought that’d be the end, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when Berserker’s fingers pinch his clit, rolling it in his rough grip and drawing out a hoarse cry. It makes his back arch, and Quentin can feel his arms pressing back against Berserker’s chest, his stomach pushing up toward his arm, the sting of the barbs hooking into his skin meeting the sweet pleasure-pain of his aching clit wherever those wires cross in Quentin’s fucked-up brain and making him moan wantonly. Every touch, from Berserker’s fingers stroking his throbbing clit to the feeling of his mouth against Quentin’s skin, makes his pussy twitch greedily, his legs tremble, like every nerve ending in his body is wired straight to the swollen little bud being played with between his thighs.

He tries to muffle his whines as the Berserker’s jaw finally loosens, teeth again pulling out of his skin, and gets a harsh pinch of his clit for his troubles, a full-on sob tumbling from his lips before he can stop himself. Quentin’s not sure if he wants to squirm away or beg for more, more, more, but Berserker clearly doesn’t need his directions, thick fingers sliding between Quentin’s wet folds with an obscenely slick sound before returning to his clit, pushing against it with insistent motions that make tears track down Quentin’s burning face.

“Quire…” It’s still a growl, but it inspires shivers rather than fear now, as the wet heat of the Berserker’s tongue over his slowly oozing shoulder earns a sweet moan and an eager shift of his hips. Ten million thoughts a second and most of them are how Quentin’s going to fucking die if Berserker stops, the rest drowned out by the embarrassingly wet sounds of his cunt, the way he gasps and whines when the razor wire catches and tugs at his flesh, the hiss as sweat rolls salty across his flushed skin and open cuts.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop-” The hand at his hip peels away, skin stinging with what Quentin knows will be a nasty bruise as Berserker’s fingers move up his side, over his ribs, to trace the bottom curve of Quentin’s breast before taking the whole soft little mound in hand, the way he whimpers and pushes his chest towards the Berserker’s touch, uncaring of the razor wire around his palm, getting a pleased rumble. Catching his nipple between his fingers, Berserker pinches and abuses it the way he does Quentin’s throbbing clit, the teen squirming between one sweet pain and another as he feels the heat in his belly and his cunt building again. “Oh, _fuck_ , fuck me, nnnh- ah-”

The plea gets a wordless snarl, his clit released only for Quentin’s whine of protest to be cut off when Berserker’s fingers shove roughly back into his cunt, three of them easily sliding home after his orgasm had left him lax and open. It takes maybe a handful of brutal thrusts- like Quentin can even fucking _count_ like this- against his g-spot, each one hitting like a punch, before Quentin comes again, writhing between Berserker and the wall as he shouts, the wreckage of his room shuddering around them.

Not that Quentin’s capable of noticing anything short of nuke, his eyes screwed shut tight, breaths coming in gasping sobs as the pleasure, the _release_ , crashes over him in waves, cunt strangling the Berserker’s fingers as the older mutant lets him ride it out. By the time the feeling has finished wracking Quentin’s body, his knees are weak, giving out entirely as Berserker slips his digits from his dripping pussy, the barbs that slice Quentin’s skin when Berserker catches him and lowers him to sit on his upended mattress only making the teen whimper and arch weakly.

Slow as they already are, his racing thoughts stall entirely when the Berserker straddles his thigh, huffing and growling softly as he begins to grind down against Quentin, and, even dazed, he can feel how wet Berserker is through his sweats, the way the damp fabric clings to his lips and the swell of his hard clit. It’s unbearably, unfairly hot, especially as he eyes Quentin up, irises almost entirely swallowed up by the inky black of his pupils, while he ruts himself against the telepath’s slim leg, shamelessly using Quentin for his own pleasure. Quid pro quo, Quentin supposes, absently licking his sore lips and watching Berserker’s gaze shift to his mouth. He lifts a hand to touch, Quentin’s lips parting easily beneath his fingers, and they slide across his tongue, filling the teen’s senses with his own musk and slick as the Berserker looks on expectantly, a purr rumbling from his chest when Quentin seals his lips around the fingers and eagerly sucks his own cum from Berserker’s skin.

He presses deeper, probing, testing, and Quentin doesn’t even flinch, simply drooling messily as he laps at every inch of soaked flesh he can, unconcerned about the fingertips prodding at his throat. It only seems to stoke the primal hunger in Berserker’s gaze, leaning heavier on the telepath as he starts to fuck his fingers between Quentin’s lips, his own brushing almost tauntingly against Quentin’s neck as inhales the scent of his skin. His tongue darts out to taste him, sweat and blood and lust, and Quentin lets out a muffled groan, his skin still tingling, oversensitive, legs twitching and pressing his thigh more firmly against Berserker’s cunt, the beast growling low against Quentin’s throat in return. Quentin can feel the cuts on his mouth starting to split and ooze again as the rough thrusts of Berserker’s fingers stretch his lips past their limit, rub against the still-raw flesh, but all it does is make his head spin, make his aching, spent cunt twitch, the saliva trailing from his mouth stinging even as it keeps the friction just on this side of bearable.

Quentin’s awareness dwindles to _sensations_ ; the pressure of Berserker’s digits on his tongue, the wet heat of his mouth at Quentin’s throat, the push and roll of the Berserker riding his thigh; fear and panic and doubt forgotten as his eyes drift shut, glasses too foggy from hot breath and bodies to do him any good, anyways. Everything he has to do is simple, impossible to screw up, and the low moans and satisfied grunts Berserker huffs against his skin are evidence of that, encouraging Quentin’s eager efforts: his tongue curling around each finger, flicking against the webbing between them, caressing each rough pad that rolls across his tongue until his own heady taste is gone, leaving him with just skin and saliva that he savors nearly as much.

It’s not Berserker’s fingers or pace that finally make Quentin choke, but the snarl that almost deafens him as the rhythm of the man’s hips stutters, the way his teeth sink into the curve of Quentin’s shoulder one last time as he comes, leaving the telepath gagging up thick saliva when Berserker finally pulls his hand away, his wet fingers curling into a fist as his claws extend to punch into the mattress behind Quentin’s head. Some tiny rational part of Quentin knows that should be like a bucket of ice water over the whole sweaty experience, but the rest of him hushes it, wanting to listen to the satisfied panting by his ear as the Berserker comes down, purring in his chest as he extracts his teeth from Quentin once more, giving it a few licks before he lifts his head to meet the teen’s eyes.

“Bring Logan back,” he instructs, slow and pointed, and Quentin swallows thickly before nodding: his head certainly is clear, enough that it takes him a moment to find the words, ignoring the sharp sound of Berserker’s claws retracting back into his arm.

“Yeah, I can- I can do that now. If you give me a little space...?” he suggests, looking at the man still basically perched on his lap and getting an answering grunt as he climbs to his feet. Looking down at Quentin, Berserker stares, face unreadable, for so long he almost risks repeating himself.

“Good telepath.”

Face aflame at the low rumble of words, Quentin watches slack-jawed as the Berserker slinks from his room, shaking his head once he’s finally alone to try and restart some of those brilliant thoughts. He pulls himself together as well as he can, freeing his hands from their makeshift restraints and tugging his shorts back into place before reaching for the blanket Berserker had dragged off him, pulling it around his shoulders before settling in again to work on the construct.

It’s as he’s diving in to fix things as a player that Quentin remembers the construct draws on his mind to build itself, and he hopes to god Logan still has all his goddamn clothes on.

**Author's Note:**

> read wolverine and the x-men: alpha and omega, folks
> 
> & find me on twitter [@BlackBat09](https://twitter.com/BlackBat09) (NSFW)


End file.
